


Not If You Were The Last Junkie On Earth

by MissMoochy



Series: MissMoochy's Spideypool Bingo Oneshots [14]
Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man/Deadpool - Joe Kelly (Comics)
Genre: Aged-Up Peter Parker, Blink And You Miss It Slash, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Drugs, Enabler Wade Wilson, M/M, No Smut, Out of Character, POV Alternating, POV Peter Parker, POV Wade Wilson, Recreational Drug Use, Spideypool Bingo 2020
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:54:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27517195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissMoochy/pseuds/MissMoochy
Summary: Spideypool Bingo prompt: [Needle Play]Addiction has got Peter Parker in its claws. Wade knows he should help him, but enabling Peter's issues seems easier. And Peter is so much more affectionate when he's high...
Relationships: Peter Parker/Wade Wilson
Series: MissMoochy's Spideypool Bingo Oneshots [14]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1813951
Comments: 7
Kudos: 80





	Not If You Were The Last Junkie On Earth

**Author's Note:**

> For the Needle Play prompt. I was going to write a tattoo shop AU but for some reason, I wrote this instead! Enjoy!
> 
> Re: I didn't do research for this, any info about cocaine is purely anecdotal (I had a friend who was a heavy user) but if there are any errors, let me know and I'll fix it. And drug use is a sensitive subject so please read the tags. If this topic is something that is a potential trigger to you, I'd suggest you do not read this little fic.

When Peter was a kid, there used to be a children’s horror show on TV. It was called _Grizzly Tales For Gruesome Kids_ and it was great. It would have a cartoon horror story with some sort of moral theme. It had been years since he’d watched it, but one story still remained cemented in his brain. The spider story, ironically.

The kid in the tale was a boy called Nigel who liked torturing spiders. But when he went to sleep that night, he inhaled the tiny ghosts of all the spiders he’d killed. They entered his body in uniform, and spun ghostly webs around his guts, his ribs, making his chest feel stiff and tight, restricting his breathing. He developed spider-like habits, like spinning webs. That episode had terrified Peter and May had switched the television off.

He felt like Nigel right now.

* * *

His chest was tight, but he was alert, aware of a niggling sensation in his skin, as if thousands of miniature ghosts with furred legs and multiple eyes were winding gossamer threads around his bones. ****

But there were no spiders, no physical ones anyway, just spider DNA running through his system but he’d been Spider-Man for years, he’d made peace with it. No, the problem he was dealing with was a lot more depressing. ****

Peter looked at his tired, red-rimmed eyes in the mirror. He was a drug addict.

* * *

This wasn’t supposed to happen. Peter never drank, smoked. Wouldn’t even take cough medicine. He’d never smoked a joint in his life. He wasn’t one of those obnoxious, clean-living people. He didn’t subscribe to minimalism and his apartment was a mess. He ate and enjoyed eating meat (although he couldn’t exactly afford steak, so it tended to be dollar store canned hot dogs). He just never saw the appeal of drugs, high-risk, low-reward, as far as he was concerned. ****

And he thought he’d passed the phase in your life where you’re more susceptible to the lure of drugs.

_He’d been sitting with Aunt May last year, in a cafe and a young girl had walked past. She couldn’t be older than seventeen but she was smoking a cigarette. May had wrinkled her nose over her latte._

_“Cigarettes are very bad for you. Scientists are still discovering new ways tobacco affects the body. I’m glad I never had to worry about you becoming a smoker.”  
_

_“Really? Why?”_ ****

_“Cigarettes are one of those things you get into when you’re younger. Kids at school are smoking and it’s seen as this ‘cool’ thing to do, so you do it too. Or because of peer pressure. But you, Peter, you’ve always been very sensible. You had nice friends in school, that MJ is a sweetheart. And once you were out of school, you were old enough to be too smart for peer pressure and cigarettes or drugs.”_ **  
**

Peter barely made it to the toilet in time. He bent over the bowl, foul bile pouring from his throat. His whole body was trembling, he felt hot but shivery, and his forehead was dripping with sweat.

Being a vigilante meant he had access to drugs. Cocaine was his poison of choice and it seemed like Spider-Man couldn't swing past a block without running into drug dealers. It easy to throw out a fist and punch them until they collapsed, then search their pockets for baggies of powered, white gold. Ugh, how had he got like this? He knew the answer. Two years ago, when foiling a drug-dealing operation, a lucky gunshot had sent him sprawling, right into the path of a table. He'd fallen facefirst into a brick of cocaine and the powder had filtered through his mask. He'd been amazingly focused and energetic as he'd beaten the dealers into submission. And he'd pocketed a bag of coke for evidence. But that baggie had never made it to the NYPD's precinct.

* * *

Of course, Wade had to find out about it.

Sometimes, Peter regretted unmasking for his buddy. Sure, it had helped their friendship grow, but he hated the vulnerability of having a naked face, open to Wade’s eyes.

They were planning to meet in Sister Margaret’s. Peter hated it there, but Wade liked it, and Peter liked seeing Wade without his mask. God knows there weren’t many places in New York where Wade could be persuaded to remove his mask. Peter always felt on edge in the bar, as if the mercenaries were going to turn around somehow sense that Spider-Man was amongst them. Even when he was incognito, he still felt like he had an arrow pointed at him, that outed him as the superpowered vigilante they loathed.

He was so nervous, that he did a bump before meeting Wade. Just one, tiny little sniff, while eyeing his pallid reflection in the streaky bathroom mirror.

He thought he was being discreet but when he returned to the bar, to see Wade waiting for him…well…

“Are you coming down from something?” Wade asked him.

Before Peter could even begin to respond, Wade was at his side and reaching for him.

His hands were firm as they cupped Peter’s face but surprisingly gentle. He tilted his Peter’s head up and the lights swam in his vision. ****

The angle was weird and he didn’t know what Wade was doing, what he was looking for, but then he realised. ****

“I’m guessing that white stuff in your nostrils is baking soda,” Wade said lightly. ****

Peter’s initial response to lie, or act indignant, but it was hard to do that with Wade peering up his nose. ****

“Why do you care, _mommy?_ ” ****

Wade’s jaw clenched and unclenched a couple of times. “I don’t give a fuck what you do. I don’t want _Spider-Man_ making an ass of himself. Coke makes you sloppy. Spider-Man can’t afford to be sloppy,”

“Spider-Man can afford to be whatever the — whatever the fuck he wants,” Wade's hands felt too warm on Peter's clammy face. He squirmed and those thick, scarred fingers tightened.

“Oh yeah? Can Spider-Man afford the drugs? Is he _picking up the tab?_ ” Wade grabbed a handful of Peter’s hip, digging his fingers into the meat of it. “Are his pockets _bulging_ with wads of cash?”

“I’m a hard worker, I can earn it,” ****

“Oh yeah?”

There was one lingering moment of blazing eye contact, and Peter was left with the impression that Wade was seeing his soul.

But then, Wade released him and moved past him, seeking out a table at the far end of the room. As he swept by, he shoulder-checked him. Peter didn’t even stumble. ****

He could see Wade talking to somebody, a grumpy-looking, overweight guy sitting with friends and undeniably, money changed hands. Wade passed him a handful of notes and the guy gave him something in return, too small for Peter to see what it was. Wade stuffed the item in the pocket of his leather jacket and left the group, walking back to Peter. ****

“What did you—” ****

“Not here,” Wade snapped, seizing Peter’s arm, so as to drag him with him. Peter could have stopped and most likely, Wade would have jerked to a halt too, but his mind was buzzing with confusion and so he let himself be pulled. ****

Wade led them to an alleyway nearby and pushed Peter in it. A neon light from a neighbouring bar flashed pink over Wade’s already ruddy face. “He’s okay, that guy. Sells good stuff and he knows I won’t tolerate bullshit so he was willing to give me a fair price. But I don’t want somebody like you dealing with somebody like that. So, whenever you want the stuff, you get it from me.” ****

“I can handle myself,”

“Never said you couldn’t,” ****

“I deal with those guys all the time!”

“ _Spider-Man_ deals with those guys. Funny thing, criminals are a lot more respectful to you if you’re wearing a mask. Or if you’ve got such a fucked-up face that they _wish_ you would wear a mask,” Wade gestured at his own face. ****

“You think they wouldn’t respect me, looking like this?” ****

Wade looked at him, really looked at him, the slim build, pale skin, smattering of dainty freckles on his nose, soft brown hair falling in his eyes. “No,” he said finally. “They wouldn’t.”

* * *

“I guess I shouldn’t worry about you. Your spidey DNA will blow through this stuff in, like, ten minutes,”

“Hurry up,” Peter groused. They’d traipsed through the cold to one of Wade’s many safe houses. Apparently, Wade was comfortable with Spider-Man knowing the location of his safe houses. Peter wasn’t sure what to do with that information.

“Yeah, yeah,” Wade said. He had emptied the little pile of powder on a dirty, sticky coffee table, and Peter couldn’t take his eyes off it. It was pure white, brighter than freshly-fallen snow. It made him think of candy, of those little cardboard tubes of sherbert. They’d come with a stick of liquorice. Wade was crushing the powder with his credit card, neatening the pile and chopping it up into dainty little lines and he was _taking too long._

Peter plodded over on dead legs. Maybe he’d get Wade to rub them for him, massage a bit of warmth back into them. Wade would be glad to do it, maybe this could be his reward for supplying Peter with his fix.

Wade found a clean drinking straw from…somewhere and cut it into pieces with a pair of nail scissors. “It’s cleaner than using a rolled-up bill,” he explained, and for some reason, that struck Peter as absolutely hilarious. He shrieked, his chest tightening with peals of laughter as Wade nudged the end of the straw to Peter’s nostril.

That first inhale felt like pure relief. His heart kicked up a notch, it felt like it was coming home. Or—or like greeting an old friend, throwing your arms around them and feeling the warmth of their body against yours. Alive, he felt so alive. He flashed Wade a giddy grin and received an uncertain smile in return.

Peter knelt by the coffee table, snuffling like a pig, snorting up that precious powder, while Wade rubbed his back, murmuring soothing sweet-nothings.

* * *

It was good. He was so happy. His heart was skipping a thumping beat, and aside from the occasional skittering lurch, it felt right. Consistent. He wished he could hold onto this feeling forever. Fill up his body with it, pure, white joy, spreading through him, buoying him up. It was the thrill of swinging through the Manhattan skyline with nothing but a string of web to keep him safe. It was like kissing a pretty girl or punching a robber or a cold bath on a hot day. He was exhilarated, energised. And he had Wade to join him on this journey.

“My pretty junkie,” Wade mused, blowing on Peter’s hair and he giggled. He didn’t know why he usually had such a problem with Deadpool, the guy was actually half-decent. “You’ve got huge eyes, Peter.”

“Mm?”

Wade looked away. “I think this is the first time I’ve never worried that I’m gonna corrupt you. I actually think you may be corrupting me,”

He sounded sad and that wasn’t good. Peter nudged Wade’s boot with his sneaker, just so he could get that heavy stare on his face again. “Hey. You can do a line on my stomach. If you want.”

“Y-yeah, okay.” **  
**

* * *

**Two years later**

Wade should have anticipated that Peter would eventually progress to needles. Gotta get them drugs in your veins. And Peter, a science nerd with a keen interest in biology who spent most of his waking moments in Stark’s lab, would have access to sterilised needles. But still, it shocked him to walk into their apartment one night and see Peter laid out on the couch with a used needle resting on his stomach.

He lay there, stretched out on Wade’s couch, his legs long and impossibly twisted. Fucking, jangly-limbed spider.

Jamming the needle into a bloated vein, watching Peter slump down. He’d sink into the couch cushions, his eyes wide as a doll’s, mouth slack.

There was something grossly unnatural about an unmoving Peter Parker. Peter was a twitchy, neurotic guy. Always jumping about, bouncing on the balls of his feet, scaling walls and all that shit. But doped up Spidey sat there, dull-eyed and lightly drooling. There was one upside. High Spidey was very relaxed and suggestible. He’d let Wade do anything to him.

It started out with brushing Peter’s thin, greasy bangs out of his eyes. Peter blinked sluggishly, his thousand-yard stare pointed somewhere over Wade’s shoulder. He’d escalated to stroking Peter’s cheek, running his finger down to that elegant neck, fooling himself into believing that he was merely checking for a pulse, nothing more. But those pink lips had beckoned, and Wade explored them with the pads of his fingers, eventually getting bold enough to slip one finger past them and into the wet mouth.

He never could find the courage to kiss him. Poke those slutty, pink lips, yes. Drag his thumb along Peter’s plump cheek, the faint stubble catching on the scars on Wade’s skin. But kiss him? He couldn’t.

There was a deep pleasure to be found in ramming needles into Peter’s veins. The warm, pliant body, Peter’s glazed eyes blinking up at him. The way Wade would jam the needle in hard and Peter would let out a pained grunt. Peter’s veins were a beautiful blue, jutting out in creamy, white flesh. They winked like neon lights, buzzing beneath the skin. _Stick me, stick me,_ they seemed to beg, and Wade could never find it in himself to refuse. 

At least, Peter wasn't in as much danger as before. These days, he couldn't even be persuaded to leave Wade's apartment to go and buy some milk, let alone to join Wade on patrol. The newspapers had long since stopped talking about Spider-Man, except for the occasional scathing article from The Daily Bugle (reusing one of their old photographs of Spidey, because they'd never managed to find another photographer with Peter's skill). Sometimes, Peter would sit up on the couch or Wade's bed and say "I should go patrolling tonight..." but it never took much to convince him to leave it another day. And he'd smile and nod, and push his sleeve up one beautiful, white arm. That skin wasn't as smooth as it used to be, now bumpy with track marks, but Wade found that he liked them. It made him feel better about his own scarred skin.

And when Peter was high, he'd sag, smiling beatifically, and pull Wade close. Snuggle up to him like a teddy bear, and mumble something nice, something that would surely sound complimentary, if only it was a bit more coherent. He clung to Peter, bending his head so he could listen to the pounding heartbeat. He wasn't planning to give Peter up, not for anything. New York would have to manage without its hero.


End file.
